lolscourge
11-20-2012, 01:13 PM
Annabelle
Long, slender reeves stand tall around the boy, rooted deep in thick mud which he is tirelessly trudging through. Around him, the air is slow-moving, cold, and there hangs a low mist. Above him the night is glittered with stars; there's not a cloud in sight.
Looking up, the boy can see all the constellations, with red gleams and purple hazes. The moon stands out most, bold and bright.
Crickets and flies buzz an eternal tune whilst a not-far-off river trickles noisily. The reeves wave lazily and, as the boy brushes through them, he moves closer to the silhouette of a large oak tree. The tree, old and ridged, stands grandly, hanging on a bank just off the river. It' mid-autumn, and browned leaves can be seen dropping from great branches. A frayed rope, lassoed around the most prominent branch, is still from where a tyre swing once was.
It was here they had arranged to meet. The girl, who's beauty had forsaken the rumours, had asked him here.
He comes to the hill leading up to the bank and calls her name. There's no answer, so, sighing, he starts up the hill, digging his feet into the mud to stop himself slipping over and hugging his overcoat as the winds pick up. He drags himself up the mound, and as he approaches the top he looks up and calls out again, louder. This time a voice echoes back to him, gleeful at his arrival. He grins, cheerful, and pushes up the last of the hill, coming to the first root of the oak tree. Pulling himself upright, he edges around the trunk to where he sees her, sitting behind the arch.
He sarcastically thanks her for her help, but his smile gives him away. She crinkles her nose and laughs apologetically as he sits beside her. The ground is drier here, but still damp, so the boy grimaces as he sinks half an inch into the ground.
“It's wet,” the boy murmurs. The girls looks at him, eyes wide, and folds into herself as she smirks immaturely. The boy frowns at her. “That's so childish.”
She turns her head and nods with a perfect smile, but doesn't respond, instead casting her gaze back across the river and into the mists, eyes flickering. Her hair is short, pinned up like he had seen in the theatre posters scattered around his village back home. Her legs are huddled into her chest and her arms are collapsed around them. She has dressed warm, in a thick, woollen jumper and snug jeans; she's wearing walking boots. Her sensible outfit doesn't compare to the boy's, who had lazily slipped on a tee-shirt and grabbed his coat as he headed out barefoot. He's wearing shorts from earlier in the day, and the hairs on his legs are standing tall in attempt to keep him warm.
He shivers violently, to which the girl turns her head and questions his attire. “I don't know, I was in a rush” brings a mocking silence to her. The girl turns her head out to the river again, rolling her eyes as the boy shifts his arm and his legs into the hull of his coat, huddling for warmth.
“Why are we here again?” he asks, looking at her.
“Because,” she responds, “look at it.”
Following the girl's gaze, the boy lays eyes to the scenes in front of him.
The mist is slowly clearing, and so past the reeves and river far off hills can be seen emerging, edging the skies. Trees of various species can be seen standing in fields which are glowing with dew and which illuminate the speckled night sky; in the distance, a stone hut can be seen, with a smoking chimney and small, wooden, four-pane windows. Fences, hedges and pathways trace shapes into the earth; not scarring it, but refining it. It is beautiful.
The boy shifts awkwardly.
“So, er, Anna, whe-”
“Annabelle.” The girl snaps. The boy jumps, hurt. “Sorry. It's Annabelle, alright? I can't stand it when people call me by who I'm not.”
“Oh, God, er, sorry,” he says, reeling, “I didn't mean to upset you.” She laughs, and pushes his shoulder.
“You didn't.” She turns and smiles at him again, that glorious, perfect smile. It eases him. “Just remember. Annabelle.”
Long, slender reeves stand tall around the boy, rooted deep in thick mud which he is tirelessly trudging through. Around him, the air is slow-moving, cold, and there hangs a low mist. Above him the night is glittered with stars; there's not a cloud in sight.
Looking up, the boy can see all the constellations, with red gleams and purple hazes. The moon stands out most, bold and bright.
Crickets and flies buzz an eternal tune whilst a not-far-off river trickles noisily. The reeves wave lazily and, as the boy brushes through them, he moves closer to the silhouette of a large oak tree. The tree, old and ridged, stands grandly, hanging on a bank just off the river. It' mid-autumn, and browned leaves can be seen dropping from great branches. A frayed rope, lassoed around the most prominent branch, is still from where a tyre swing once was.
It was here they had arranged to meet. The girl, who's beauty had forsaken the rumours, had asked him here.
He comes to the hill leading up to the bank and calls her name. There's no answer, so, sighing, he starts up the hill, digging his feet into the mud to stop himself slipping over and hugging his overcoat as the winds pick up. He drags himself up the mound, and as he approaches the top he looks up and calls out again, louder. This time a voice echoes back to him, gleeful at his arrival. He grins, cheerful, and pushes up the last of the hill, coming to the first root of the oak tree. Pulling himself upright, he edges around the trunk to where he sees her, sitting behind the arch.
He sarcastically thanks her for her help, but his smile gives him away. She crinkles her nose and laughs apologetically as he sits beside her. The ground is drier here, but still damp, so the boy grimaces as he sinks half an inch into the ground.
“It's wet,” the boy murmurs. The girls looks at him, eyes wide, and folds into herself as she smirks immaturely. The boy frowns at her. “That's so childish.”
She turns her head and nods with a perfect smile, but doesn't respond, instead casting her gaze back across the river and into the mists, eyes flickering. Her hair is short, pinned up like he had seen in the theatre posters scattered around his village back home. Her legs are huddled into her chest and her arms are collapsed around them. She has dressed warm, in a thick, woollen jumper and snug jeans; she's wearing walking boots. Her sensible outfit doesn't compare to the boy's, who had lazily slipped on a tee-shirt and grabbed his coat as he headed out barefoot. He's wearing shorts from earlier in the day, and the hairs on his legs are standing tall in attempt to keep him warm.
He shivers violently, to which the girl turns her head and questions his attire. “I don't know, I was in a rush” brings a mocking silence to her. The girl turns her head out to the river again, rolling her eyes as the boy shifts his arm and his legs into the hull of his coat, huddling for warmth.
“Why are we here again?” he asks, looking at her.
“Because,” she responds, “look at it.”
Following the girl's gaze, the boy lays eyes to the scenes in front of him.
The mist is slowly clearing, and so past the reeves and river far off hills can be seen emerging, edging the skies. Trees of various species can be seen standing in fields which are glowing with dew and which illuminate the speckled night sky; in the distance, a stone hut can be seen, with a smoking chimney and small, wooden, four-pane windows. Fences, hedges and pathways trace shapes into the earth; not scarring it, but refining it. It is beautiful.
The boy shifts awkwardly.
“So, er, Anna, whe-”
“Annabelle.” The girl snaps. The boy jumps, hurt. “Sorry. It's Annabelle, alright? I can't stand it when people call me by who I'm not.”
“Oh, God, er, sorry,” he says, reeling, “I didn't mean to upset you.” She laughs, and pushes his shoulder.
“You didn't.” She turns and smiles at him again, that glorious, perfect smile. It eases him. “Just remember. Annabelle.”